Warriors Challenge Tracker
by Vanquish Monsoon
Summary: Just a way to keep track of my Warriors challenges, as you could probably gather from the title. Go on, take a peek. You know you want to. T for minor gore and death.


Night spills over the deepest part of the forest as a lone figure struggles through the dense banks of snow that lay packed firm against the earth, the bitter leafbare chill cutting through his ragged pelt and causing the tiny bundle of fur between his jaws to cry out in discomfort. Desperate, the tom sends a silent prayer to the heavens that he can make it to his destination before it's too late, puffing warm breaths out through his muzzle in a vain attempt to warm the freezing kit.

A strong wind threatens to push him back, to deter him from his course, and his claws unsheath, digging deep into the earth to propel himself forward. It isn't long, though, before he reaches a camp, a fairly broad clearing carefully lined with layers of gorse and brambles with an opening crafted from a bushel of sedge, almost imperceptible unless one were searching for it. He halts at the entrance, uncertain, when the kit dangling from his jaws voices another mewl, and immediately his resolve is strengthened. " _Larksong_ ," he calls quietly, peeking his head into the entrance. The sound is muffled by the tiny kit, and he figures he'd better sneak in and find her if wants a private audience with her. So he dips his head carefully, easing himself through the tunnel of sedge and entering the clearing, taken by surprise as he comes face-to-face with a thick, gray tabby, his vibrant forest eyes both unsettled and perplexed.

"You'd be wise to step back unless you'd like to be sick as well," the tom says evenly to the Clan cat.

"I'll take my chances," the warrior meows in response, just as civil, but glances at the kit between his jaws and takes a step back in spite of himself. "What business have you within our borders?"

"I need to speak with your deputy."

"I am he," the tabby responds.

The tom starts, unsure of himself. "Er - what happened to Larksong?"

"You mean Lark _star_ ," the deputy corrects. "She's in her den, but that is no concern of yours." He motions over the tom's form for emphasis, waving over his ragged, unkempt pelt and cold, lifeless eyes with the tip of his tail. "You'd be putting her life at risk with your illness."

The tom bristles at this. The tabby's easy eyes became guarded, and the he noticed in the change of his stance that the deputy was well aware of the extent a father would go for the welfare of his kits. However, a battle between the two within the Clan camp would be a sure loss for the tom; the tabby was broad, well-fed, and his hard muscles rippled beneath his pelt with every movement. The tom, however, hadn't had a good meal in days, and he'd been weakened by a cruel mix of a harsh leafbare coupled with deadly sickness. He drops the kit between his paws, covering the tiny scrap of fur with his bushy, tawny-colored tail, and utters his next words carefully, quietly. "Tell her that Talon is here for her, and I promise you, my sickness will not be an issue."

The confidence in the calico tom's words gives the tabby a single moment of hesitation, unsure of this tom - Talon's - identity, but vaguely familiar nonetheless.

"Stormwhisker?" a voice mews from beyond the clearing, startling both toms. Out of what Talon assumes is the leader's den comes a long-legged brown-and-white tabby, her yellow eyes pale and wide as two moons side by side. A pang of longing grips the tom's heart at the sight of her, stinging like brambles, and he has to remind himself why he is here. "Larkstar," he says casually, an attempt to mask his emotions. "Sight for sore eyes, aren't you?"

The she-cat dips her head curtly in response. The gesture was formal, disconnected. The notion that she was keeping her distance sent another pang through his heart. "I need to speak with you privately," he mews, and when she hesitates he adds, "You know I wouldn't come all this way if it wasn't urgent."

The tabby tom steps forward. "I don't think-"

"It's fine, Stormwhisker," Larkstar sighs. "I won't be long."

Clearly disapproving, the deputy turns his back, but doesn't object. "I'll be watching from the warrior's den, just in case."

"Thank you," she meows, waving her tail at the tom as he goes. When the tabby is out of sight, Larkstar turns to face Talon, and the polite, impartial expression she holds melts to something a stern mother would give to her kit. "You had better have a good reason for coming here without so much as a warning when we're-"

"I'm dying."

Talon tries to gauge her emotions as she processed this bit of news, but her features are perfectly unreadable as she stares back, her expression hard. He'd hoped that telling her would reveal at least some form of grief, to show that she still felt for him what he does for her, but if she does, she doesn't show it. "And… what does this mean?"

Talon's heart quickens. Was that a quiver in her voice?

He lifts his tail away from his paws to reveal the tiny bundle of fur lying underneath, the kit squeaking in protest as the warmth of its father's tail is lifted away. Larkstar bristles at the implication. "And where would this kit's _mother_ be?"

Talon thought he could hear hints of jealousy in her mew, but he decides against saying so. "Whitecough has taken her away from me."

"And Whitecough will claim this kit as well," she says, eyeing the kit. "A tortoiseshell tom could never survive in the wild. Not like you."

"Larkso- er, Lark _star_. Please, listen. These cats trust you with their lives." He motioned around at the Clan with a flick of his tail. "I trust you with _my_ life… you're the only cat I trust with him."

The tabby leader's tail lashes. "And just what does that mean?"

"You wouldn't have a Clan to lead if it weren't for me," he responds evenly, quiet enough so that only she can hear. "In fact, if it weren't for me, you'd be just another rogue. Your own Clan would have cast you out-"

"Enough!" She spits.

Stormwhisker perks up from his den a ways away at the sound of her outburst. He doesn't pursue, though, because Larkstar reassures him with a flick of her tail and a swivel of her ear. "You've no right to bring any of that up. We've both made mistakes-"

"We were no mistake," he cut in, unable to hide the hurt in his voice.

"Yes," Larkstar says, more softly this time, "we were." She sees Talon flinch at this, then flicks her gaze down to his paws where the kit lay curled in a ball of fur. "I understand the severity of your situation, but I cannot guarantee your kit's safety, even within the walls of our camp."

"I understand that," the tom says, "and I understand why. But if he has a chance at a life, at any, I'll do whatever I can to ensure it."

She continues to eye the kit warily. "And what do I tell my Clan? Kits don't just appear out of thin air."

"You don't have to tell them anything," he whispers, his gaze lingering over the crouching deputy watching them from afar. "Say you found him out in the forest somewhere. It's in the warrior code, right? To never turn away a kit in need?"

"I suppose so," Larkstar sighs. She takes the kit by the scruff and carefully lifts him away from his father, waving her tail in a beckoning gesture to her deputy, who is quick to take her side again as they head away into the nursery. Talon notices this with a prickle of envy. Is Stormwhisker her new mate?

He doesn't wait to find out, though. As soon as the two cats are out of sight, the tom quickly and quietly escapes through the entrance tunnel, and just as he does, a racking cough grips his lungs like piercing thorns, sapping the better part of his strength and causing him to sink back on his haunches.

He'd been keeping a brave face for Larksong and his son, but now that he didn't have to keep up appearances he felt weak as a starved kit. He glances up to the sky's inky raven pelt, the dark obscured by tiny pinpricks of lights called stars and adorning the night.

He will die soon, he knows, but at that moment, with the weight of his son's fate lifted from his shoulders, he doesn't mind. As all rogues must, he will die alone somewhere, away, hidden from those who walk this forest; his kit would spend his last days in a Clan that was secure, secluded, but surrounded by those who would surely take to him and accept him as one of them as he grows.

And as Talon ambles away into the forest, for what he was sure would be the last time, he couldn't be more wrong.


End file.
